


stroke, as gentle as a feather

by peculiar_mademoiselle



Category: Midsommar (2019)
Genre: F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Canon, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-20 22:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21289298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiar_mademoiselle/pseuds/peculiar_mademoiselle
Summary: "She doesn't ask where they're going, she just allows herself to be led. But for once, it's not stifling, it's freeing. Being led is better than chasing after someone who won't even turn around."Dani and Pelle, after the fire.
Relationships: Dani Ardor/Pelle (Midsommar)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 290





	stroke, as gentle as a feather

Dani's apartment is still in a state of disarray. Packing for the trip with a head still foggy with grief had meant seizing her belongings and shoving them in the nearest suitable bag. Her bed is unmade, blankets crumpled. It doesn't matter. She'll never crawl under them again. 

When the smoke is dying down from the ritual and the shrieking has stopped Dani falls back to earth. She can suddenly feel the ground beneath her, solid. Although she still feels as though she is slowly taking root. Her tears are salty, she tastes them where they have gathered in the corners of her smile.

The other villagers have begun to wander away, chatting in groups. Merry, as though what they've just witnessed was a delightful show, not something so depraved that Dani could not have previously imagined anything like it. She starts when she feels someone's hand on her shoulder through the heavy coat of flowers. 

Pelle's touch is so light, like that of a bird. Perhaps he is making an effort not to startle her. Or perhaps, she thinks darkly, he doesn't want to crush any of the blooms. 

He is gazing at her with a serene look she can barely read. Is he wistful? Proud? Victorious? His own crown is deep green, but as grand as her own, and he wears it well. She's reminded of the story of the Erl-King, her Mom reading her the tale of the creature who was both a man and the wood, luring young girls to his lair and trapping them in cages he himself weaved…

"Come. Let me help you up." 

His voice is soft as ever, as he takes her hand and helps her shuck out of the floral gown. It's a relief to feel the cool air on her skin again, shedding the warm and itchy garment like a chrysalis. Limbs stiff from her time spent still, watching the fire.

Pelle chuckles and takes her hand more securely when that stiffness causes her to stumble. 

"Our graceful May Queen," he says with relish, a teasing edge to his tone. She finds herself laughing too, the reserves of strength she used to suppress her emotions are spent, and she doubts they will ever refill. 

If anything, Pelle seems thrilled to see her giggling. He mirrors her smile. 

She doesn't ask where they're going, she just allows herself to be led. But for once, it's not stifling, it's freeing. Being led is better than chasing after someone who won't even turn around.

He's leading her back towards the boarding house she realises, a group of women are waiting outside for her. They smile as they approach and one of them says a few words in their language to Pelle, who laughs and nods.

"They're going to take you to get ready," he explains, unthreading their fingers, "I'll see you soon." 

With a light kiss to her forehead, he turns and walks away. She recognises all of the women now, she’d danced with them, held their hands and whirled. She’d screamed with them too. 

They reach out for her again, that tactile comfort anchoring her. Though this time, instead of sharing in her devastation, they’re sharing their own excitement. She can almost feel their warmth fill her, from the dozens of points where their hands meet her flesh. 

“Now that the ritual is over, we mark it with a night of celebration. It’s more...relaxed,” one of the girls says, squeezing Dani’s shoulder. 

"That...sounds fun," she replies automatically, voice level. Distantly, she's aware that she's still in shock, she knows she'll surface soon, and have to reckon with what happened. What she's done. For now she just stares absently, allowing the women to pull their fingers through her hair and fiddle with her dress. 

When they’re finished she finds herself still in crisp white, but in a gown that is slightly longer and more elaborate. Pink and yellow thread criss-crosses down the front, a sprawling pattern of flowers, tumbling from her clavicle. Her hair is loose now, but she still wears the crown that marks her as Queen. Had she worn this in the US she’d have felt ridiculous - swamped. A child playing with grown up clothes. Now, she fills the garment, her head held high. 

For a singular moment, her own pride sickens her. 

She is led outside by the other women, all of whom are still grinning and chattering. Hours must have passed, for now there are tables set up in the open field, piled with food and drink, and music playing. The sky is dim, as close to twilight as this place gets in summer. People are dancing, groups of children spinning and holding hands, whooping with joy, couples swaying and laughing, lines of friends skipping to-and-fro. It’s beautiful. Her arrival is still met with excitement by everyone, awe in their eyes as they pass, occasionally reaching out to grip her arms or hands. 

“Dani!”

Pelle is striding towards her, his round face seeming almost lit up from within by his smile. He’s still wearing his blue and white tunic, but his crown is gone. His curls frame his face in a way that is almost angelic. She nearly laughs at the thought - her own personal Gabriel, changing her life, guiding her on. Though perhaps he is more like another, with his soft voice like the rushing of waves, his eyes boring into hers as he offers her a ripe fruit. Oh, sit with me Dani, listen to me Dani, I understand you Dani. Take a bite and be _ free _. 

He hugs her so hard that her feet come away from the floor. Despite the flood of cold thoughts she presses her face into his shoulder, relishing in the feeling of being wanted. The heat from his body drives any chilly thoughts away and she finds her lips twitched upwards by the time he sets her down. His eyes are locked on her face immediately. 

Normally the feeling of being stared at would unnerve her. Only now does she realise why it doesn’t this time. Pelle has always stared. From the moment she met him, offering her hand for him to shake (internally cursing herself because oh-my-God-it’s-not-a-job-interview-you-idiot) his eyes have followed her. She had liked Christian’s quietest friend, who despite his timidity always tried to make her feel welcome, she’d just never gotten a glimpse behind the mask that he was so obviously wearing. 

That was unfair, it wasn’t a mask. More like a facet. He was himself a many-faced god, with every visage but one veiled. Until now. 

He looks at her like she is a wonder. As if she’s walked on water towards him, or is hovering a few inches above the ground. She basks in it, as if his conviction will make it true. 

“Dance with me?” 

His voice is light, but he has already begun to rock her against him like a babe. They stay like that for an age, pressed in an embrace. Trees engaged in inosculation. The sky above them darkens to a dusky blue, and the music slows. Dani becomes aware that the dancing around them has slowed too, no longer are children running wild, but couples are gyrating in each others arms, some kissing, some falling to the floor and...oh.

Pelle had kissed her before, she’s sure of it. The experience of becoming the May Queen was a fuzzy one, quickly becoming lost to her, the way a dream does over the course of a morning. But she couldn’t have imagined the feel of his lips. Her thoughts must be plain on her face, because Pelle stops dancing and pulls an arm free. 

Softly, so softly, he cradles her chin, rubbing his thumb against her full lips. She feels bold when she holds his gaze and parts them, taking it in her mouth. An expression of joy overtakes his face, and within moments his hands are back around her waist, and his mouth is on hers. He kisses hungrily, as if trying to devour her. For a split second she wishes she were so small that he could. He could swallow her down and hold her within himself forever. Moaning at the twisted thought, she pulls him closer, dropping back onto the soft grass with a huff. 

He’s straddling her then, and she can feel his hardness even through his trousers, pressed against her midriff. Desperately he pushes up her skirt, bunching it around her waist. She is unencumbered by underwear, and soon her cunt is before him, slick and sweet. He groans at the sight, and the sound shudders through her with a jolt of pleasure. 

Unfazed by the untamed blonde fuzz around it, he lowers his head and begins to lick her pussy. His ministrations immediately make her mewl, her back arching. Her and Christian hadn’t had sex in six months but this - this he had never done. Pelle is attentive and skilful, and before long she is soaked, writhing in the grass. He sits himself up jerkily, and quickly pulls down his own breeches, exposing his erect cock. 

“Dani, Dani, Dani, Dani…” he mutters like a prayer, leaning down to press kisses all over her face and neck. Around her she can hear a myriad of other moans, but now they seem a natural echo. 

“Please, please, I need you,” she begs, widening her legs. It doesn’t take him long to press himself inside her, crying out with pleasure. As he thrusts she feels as though she is sinking into the earth, the grass wrapping around her wrists and ankles, her hair, becoming entangled and then part of the flowers. He is fucking her into the ground, and she is one with it. 

She comes with a scream, and he follows soon after, his warm seed filling her. The thought of being gravid with his child makes her shake, but not with fear. 

Collapsing on top of her, he pulls her close, still whispering into her ear, “Oh Dani, jag älskar dig, jag älskar dig.”

Her Swedish may be poor, but that she understands. As she lays there in Pelle’s arms, afloat in a sea of lust, surrounded by the sweet scent of sweat, flowers and the remnants of burnt flesh, she doesn’t need words. She feels it in her bones.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Willow's Song, which features in the Wicker Man.
> 
> Thankyou for reading! I actually started writing this right after seeing the film at the cinema, and a DVD re-watch inspired me to finish it. Kudos and comments are always loved. Hope you enjoy. <3


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